


Peeling the Rind

by Churchwarden



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: First Time, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-06
Updated: 2010-07-06
Packaged: 2017-10-10 10:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Churchwarden/pseuds/Churchwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson somewhat awkwardly gets what he desires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peeling the Rind

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [The Lion Hunt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/98544). Russian Holmes/Watson. Watson races to the bedroom with Holmes following him -- he assumes. Beta read by the glorious [](http://curiousfunk.livejournal.com/profile)[**curiousfunk**](http://curiousfunk.livejournal.com/).

It was not what I had pictured by '_later_,' mind you.

My heart was racing as I headed up the short flight of stairs to my own room, decorated with an array of weaponry above my small but blessedly comfortable bed. As soon as I crossed the threshold, I no longer heard Holmes's footsteps and I whirled around on my heels to try and locate him. He wasn't standing behind me with lust in his eyes, oh no. Holmes wasn't standing there at all.

Had the sound of his footsteps just been my own heart as I laid out a clever line behind myself for him to follow? Surely my advances weren't unwanted: we had embraced so tightly that it could not have all been in one direction on my part. Perhaps he was just giving me time? _Time_. Time was something I had with Sherlock Holmes now that he had not-so-mysteriously risen from the grave. Time was something I could take.

And so I turned around again and stared into my room. My eyes were immediately drawn to the bed, but considering the circumstances, it suddenly seemed awfully cramped. Though, I thought with embarrassment, I supposed that much room wasn't necessary.

I began to strip out of some of the less comfortable parts of my attire, making sure I was taking time. Surely Holmes would come to find me. I'd heard him follow, hadn't I? I pulled off my waistcoat, pushed my braces off my shoulders, letting them hang behind me. Removing the collar was my favorite part of the day, and enjoyed it as I flicked it onto the dresser. Tie pin, ascot, cufflinks, cuffs, and then I paused, choosing to roll up my shirtsleeves. I touched my hair and exhaled, and then turned round again.

Where the devil was _Holmes_?

It had occurred to me after a moment to retrieve my half-smoked cigar from the tray upon the dresser as I had set about disrobing, and as I stuck it in my mouth I left my room. I realized soon after that Holmes had certainly followed me up the stairs, but not into my room, having went to his own instead. I found myself flabbergasted and walked straight to his room. The door was open and there I found Holmes relaxed into a chair with a large volume spread on his lap.

Holmes knew I was there, but he did not look up or even acknowledge me. I cleared my throat, the cigar now between my fingers. "Ah… I thought…"

"You said to me that you wanted to finish your smoke," Holmes said without looking up, and I felt a strange feeling twist within me. I exhaled out a laugh.

"I'm afraid that was a bit of a way to, ah-" I swallowed reflexively, not really sure what I was supposed to tell Sherlock Holmes, who sat smugly in his chair and who probably was just getting revenge at my surprising him in the empty house. Of this I could only hope, since this tension that coursed through my body and mind was making it difficult to focus.

"To get me to chase you? I daresay it almost worked," Holmes teased.

My mouth opened, but I failed to speak and so I stuffed my cigar back into place between my lips. "This is absurd," I ejaculated after quite possibly the longest and most awkward pause we had held together, even though I had half a mind to think it was not awkward for Holmes, whose mouth was drawn into a thin line but I could swear that it twitched occasionally during those moments.

"Yes, Doctor Watson," Holmes drawled, and turned the page. "You do take an awfully long time to smoke a cigar. You are the one into psychology, yes? Something recent comes to mind. Oral fixations? I'm sure I've read of it somewhere and then promptly forgotten it because of psychology's woefully unsubstantiated tendencies."

If I had been a more impulsive man, I would have put the cigar out in the nearest Petri dish. Instead, I blurted out another awkward laugh, and then quickly found myself retreating. I smoked the cigar hard and fast for another few moments and then put it out in my own room. As I stood there, minus the cigar, my mind was racing about what to do or say. I turned to go return to his quarters and nearly jumped out of my own skin, my hand clutching at my heart through my shirt. "Holmes!"

He stood there now, his waistcoat still on and his braces just visible, but the sharply starched collar was gone. There were no scarves, no jacket lapels - nothing to stop me from staring at his throat. I looked up and his eyes met mine, his overpowering my own rather than simply _looking_ at them. The hand that I held to my chest dropped as I felt compelled to do, or at least say something.

This time, my mouth did not even move, and so it was Holmes who spoke. "My friend. You're troubled." His voice had taken on the maternal tone which tended to discourage me from wanting to push him down and peel his clothing off of him like one removes a rind.

I exhaled, the motion shuddering through my body, and then tried to look elsewhere. "This was not what I had in mind," I muttered as I looked up, the only place my eyes finding to focus being the ceiling. Holmes was probably still looking at me, but I was too ashamed to meet his gaze. Instead, I went to sit on the edge of my bed. "Holmes…"

"If you're having trouble with expounding on what you were thinking about at dinner, I can offer you a few hints as to how to begin."

"I'm sorry I kissed you," I said quickly, still unable to look at him.

"What?"

The surprise in his voice caused me to look at Holmes, who had been caught off guard by my admission. I did love throwing him off; his eyebrows seemed to tilt into a sad, frustrated expression, as if surprise was the worst thing imaginable to Sherlock Holmes. "I should not have done it," I continued. "Not there."

His expression changed as he looked at me, and though I still suddenly felt like my face was burning with embarrassment, he seemed gentle and less teasing. It was a little frightening, how easily he could sooth me, even when he was the cause of my shame.

"Of course you shouldn't have," Holmes said, the abrupt manner of his words softened by his tone. "It wasn't a very romantic environment, though the moment did seem to be…"

"Poetic," I filled in for him. I was still nervous, but I could feel a sliver of the boldness I'd felt earlier trickling back into me.

"That is not _nearly_ the word I would have chosen," Holmes admonished, and I reached up to him, snatching his hand. It was bare now, and my thumb slid over his uneven knuckles with a little shiver.

"Sit next to me," I said, and wished our gestures had been as rushed as they had been in the empty house. After I'd pulled off his hat, and he his glasses, and then his open face had beamed at me, if I hadn't been in love with him before – and I can tell you, dear reader, that I had been in love with him before we even solved his first case – then I certainly would have tumbled head-over-heels in that moment. I longed for a moment like that again, but all I had now was Holmes sitting next to me, our legs touching in one long line. Oddly enough, in this position the idea of kissing him struck fear into my heart.

I was still unsure as to whether or not we were doing the right thing. For him, at any rate. What did he feel? Was he interested in me only physically, and not emotionally? And if so, would it be wrong of me to take advantage of his interest in the physical aspect of a friendship and pretend, for my own sake, that he loved me back?

When I thought of that, I felt my eyes shut tightly. I was pained at my own thoughts, and knew I should have thrust Holmes from my side in that moment. It would spare me in the long run, I knew. And yet, when I heard the bed wheeze as Holmes shifted only slightly, and when I felt the heat of him closing in on me as if he were mere inches from me in every way, I could not move. He was actively seducing me and I had to stop him from making the mistake, so my eyes snapped open. Holmes was right in front of me, his eyes level and close to mine. They were so striking, that when my mouth opened it was very slow and no sound came out. Instead, he leaned forward and lightly kissed my upper lip and mustache, his eyelids falling half way. I had never been on the receiving end of such a sultry look before, and I felt a strange coil of arousal spark through me.

I had every intention of saying something to him, but then his fingertips lifted up to stroke my chin and, with little effort, pushed it up so that my agape mouth shut very neatly. When my lips touched together I felt myself blushing that he had dared to do such a thing, and I leaned back a bit only for him to follow me, his lips pressing harder against mine. He urged his entire body against mine, from forehead to waist, and eventually I felt myself fall backwards. My legs twisted up onto the bed and his followed so that we touched from forehead to ankle. Our lips separated, but only so that his pointed tongue could tease my lips back into an open gasp, making it easier for him to slide his tongue in, and as he did so my arms shot up around him, holding him in place on top of me.

My senses shattered, as did my usual capabilities, and Holmes accomplished the work of removing our sets of clothing without much assistance from myself. I longed to touch him as I tried to unclothe him, but I kept finding myself distracted by Holmes tasting my neck, alternating between licking and then sucking on my earlobe and even his calloused fingertips brushing over my nipples. I was fitfully aroused, so much so that I could not concentrate on anything other than his touch.

Finally I forced myself to stare at Holmes now, trying to catch my breath. We were both naked, our clothes pushed off onto the floor in a state of most pleasant disarray. He hovered above me, one of his hands pressing intimately against my outer hip while the other rubbed up into my hair. His touches were soft and as sweat cooled on my body, goose bumps rose sharply under a weight of cold and a large amount of nervousness.

"John," he said to me soothingly, and kissed my lips. "I locked the door."

My hands roamed his back slowly, made easier by the slickness of sweat. "It's not just that," I whispered, and felt him kiss my neck before starting to make his way further down. "I just cherish our friendship to the p—pah… The point that. Ahh…" I was certainly not lifting my body up under Holmes's kisses, no: it must have been moving of its own volition. The ignition of arousal had turned to full-on need, and Holmes' hands brushed it as he expertly moved downward. "I wouldn't want anything to become uncomfortable," I gushed all at once, though I hesitate to admit the end of the word trailed up in a high cry as his tongue had somehow already made it to my inner thighs.

Holmes shot me a look, and I knew it was one of warning. _Don't speak._ I did not want to look away, and let my fingers tangle in his hair as he took care of me with his mouth and hands. It was so noisy and messy that I was flushed from embarrassment as well as the most intense, stinging desire I had ever experienced. I drove one of my hands up into my own mouth and gasped around my fingers as my body tensed, toes curled hard, and hips jerked forward against him.

He stayed there for a while and I slowly pulled my hand out of my mouth, noting the tooth marks in my thumb and index finger. My head hit the bed and I couldn't quite make a sound, though I'm sure I felt that my mouth was stuck in a most incorrigible grin.

Holmes moved up, rutting against me. His grin was worse than mine, as he had just displayed an impressive showing of skills and was preening even as he rubbed against me in desperation. I spread my legs just enough that he could slide between them, which caused him to gasp a fraction. "Watson, you mustn't."

"Let me," I said, and took him in hand. It had surprised him, and he leaned over me, supporting himself with his hand next to my neck, never getting close enough to kiss me. He chanted at me as I moved faster. I memorized the color his eyes turned, the curl of a snarl in his lip, the curse he uttered as he finished magnificently above me.

I loved him so deeply that I was sure I was going to tell him. I kissed him to keep my mouth shut, and he fell on top of me. His hands rose, cupping my face so sweetly that my chest burned with the gesture. Yesterday, Holmes had been dead. Tonight, there had only been little death. My feelings were bubbling inside of me and I yearned to tell him that.

And yet, when he'd caught his breath, he drew himself up, stretching. "You could have said something earlier," Holmes said, and my euphoria slowly transformed into a bit of a gray demeanor (I was absolutely not one to being afflicted by Holmes's _black moods_, merely a lesser derivative) as I looked up at the handsome man. He found his waistcoat on the floor and pulled out a cigarette case, removing two. He lit them both in his mouth and passed one to me.

Confusion surrounded me, and yet I took what he offered and smoked it. After he pushed the rest of the clothes out of the way, and my comfort to the end of the bed, he got back in it and pressed himself close to me, one arm sliding around my back as we smoked.

"Pray, tell me why I should have?" I asked suddenly, the taste of the cigarette so much more intense than my usual cigars as I inhaled. "You deduce everything there is to know about me."

"I had realized that you were hiding a certain feeling for someone of the same sex, Watson, that I knew. And only now do I know who the person is, which I am pleased to say, fits my desires most handsomely. But there are still things I cannot quite gather without testimony."

I blew smoke straight up and looked at him with mild confusion as my only response.

"I do not know the extent of your feelings," Holmes said plainly, spreading his hands. "Or what you want of this."

I knew exactly what I wanted, and he knew that I knew it, but that was the end of it. "I don't know what I want," I lied to him, and it was as plain as day to me. "And I ask that you do not rush me to finding out." My eyes leveled to his, and he studied me for a long time before he put out his cigarette and reached for my wrist.

"I see," he said, and then nodded. "All I ask, then, is that you come with me to my bedroom."

"Why's that?" I asked a bit suspiciously.

"My bed is bigger," he stated, and then leapt off of the bed. He unlocked the door, stark naked, and strode across the abode to his own room. I gaped after him, and stood to gather my dressing gown.

I did not know what he wanted but I knew that for now, since love was not in his repertoire, I would take whatever he gave me.


End file.
